by Avery Aster
Lex took the hanky. “Thank you.” She noticed the Tittoni monogram embroidered on the center. Its lettering scratched her sunburned cheeks as she patted her eyes dry.
“Prego, I don’t know your situation at all. But I learned today your father is the late Eddie Easton. If I may be bold to ask—can’t his legacy help you with your enterprise?”
“Dad died two years ago.” She hesitated to share, but at that point had nothing to lose. “He left me and Mom with nothing but gambling debts.”
“A huge Eddie fan, I saw your padre in concert, twice.” He sang, buzzing along to Eddie’s popular tunes. Lex realized it was to sweeten the sourness in the air.
She twisted her hanky in her lap. “The song you’re humming is my favorite from Dad’s fifth studio album.”
“Death’s Door?” Roberto asked.
“Knockin’ on Death’s Door. Dad’s glam metal ballad was produced as the lead soundtrack for an early nineties slasher film. The track won a Golden Globe Award for Best Original Song.”
“I didn’t know.”
She laughed, thinking about her father’s money. His achievements and fame lived on, but his cash dried up. “The number did better than the movie. Can you imagine someone as famous as my father didn’t have a will? His scummy manager retained every song right. Such a hippie, a great performer, but not a businessman.” She sipped her water to clear her throat. No sense in thinking about the past.
“Can’t you get the fabrics from somewhere else?” he asked.
“Anything else would be subpar. I’ll have to close the business.”
“Subpar may be better than nothing at all.” Roberto stood. “Now, let’s have Clara make you a fresh insalata verde and we’ll take it to your villa, where your housemaid will draw you a bath.” He held his hand out to help her up.
Lex rose and embraced him. She needed a hug, even from a complete stranger—a royal palace employee, no less. “Thank you for listening to me. This isn’t your problem. It’s not even the prince’s. It’s mine and mine alone.”
“Screw Girasoli!” she shouted out loud, running down the beach. The sky glowed from the crescent moon, waves crashing in black shimmers on the shore. The wet sand squished under her feet as it kicked back on her sweats in small clumps. She didn’t care.
Lex took up jogging when she’d admitted Birdie to rehab for the fourth time. Running eight miles a day, five days a week retained her sanity through her mom’s many attempts for sobriety. She worked off her frustration from the dinner.
Afterward, she tried to eat the salad Clara prepared, but couldn’t. Her anxiety returned, seeping through her pores in a cold sweat. At a quarter past ten, Lex dialed Vive’s direct line, calculating she was six hours behind her. She’d be deep in her day.
“Viveca Farnworth, speaking. Whatcha debauchery?”
“Don’t be upset, please, Vive.” Lex defended herself, not allowing Vive to attack.
“Lex, love, I drank Veuve, ya know—champers for lunch. I’m gettin’ a mani-pedi combo by Mr. Kim Lee at my desk. I couldn’t be mad at you if you rode my boyfriend’s dick around Manhattan.” Vive giggled. She swished status quo at Debauchery magazine.
“Vive, you don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Biiietch, please don’t ruin my midday buzz, okay?” she warned. Vive enjoyed her delusional life bubble, and testifying ignorance kept her blissful. Viveland remained far, far, away from where everyone on Earth resided, called Park Avenue. “How’s Italy, honey bunny?”
“I’m on Isola di Girasoli. I met with Prince Tittoni tonight about my fabrics.”
“Mmm hmm,” Vive moaned. Her high-pitched panting increased. “Ohhhh, Your Majesty. Ahhhh, princey poo.” When Vive finished her faux phone sex orgasm, narrating how “juicylicious” Massimo must be on Ecstasy Island, she inquired, “Birdie mentioned Amelia Earhart is flying your Girasoli textile shipment over. She lost?”
“Hardy har! And Jimmy Hoffa is brokering the delivery through customs.”
“You get Birdie’s jokes better than moi. Sorry to hear Girasoli and Easton aren’t strutting the catwalk together. Want Debauchery magazine to run a slammer on princey poo ripping ’em to pieces?” Vive paused, waiting for an answer, then continued, “We could call the editorial ‘Prince of Poo’, an inside look at what a piece of shi—”
“No!” Lex interrupted her. A tabloid victim herself as a preteen, Lex didn’t dare provoke anyone to smear another’s reputation—even if warranted. “No, thank you.” She appreciated her friend’s defenses, knowing Vive wasn’t serious about much in life. But gossip involving a royal Mediterranean prince may be her gospel.
Vive continued, “Do you remember last year when Prada flew New York editors to Milan’s fashion week?”
“Uh-huh,” Lex mumbled. She sat down on the villa’s oversized bed, knowing she’d be in for another Viveca Farnworth tale.
“Prince Tittoni’s motley crew, including security guards, glamour girls, and hunk du jour men attended a few soirées.” Vive slurped, more champagne perhaps, glug, glug. Another short pause and Vive cheered, “One second, Lex love.” Glug, glug, glug, glug.
“And?” Her cell phone bill was going to be maxed in roaming charges if she waited for Vive to down the next champagne bottle.
Vive burped. “Excusez-moi.” She mumbled some gibberish to Mr. Kim Lee to buff her soles harder and cautioned, “Tittoni’s a loner, sticks to himself. Ignored everyone including the guests he arrived with, didn’t look at me once. Odd. You know what his disinterest in my beauty means, don’t cha?”
“Massimo isn’t gay, Vive. Please don’t start with your assumptions.”
Her friend theorized anyone who didn’t worship her Germanic tribal stamina from her father, mixed with her Swedish-born beauty from her mother, be a homosexual. Vive also didn’t believe anyone should live below 42nd Street. She encouraged on. “Have you ever met a man as hot, hung, rich and hard-bodied as your princey poo who was straight?”
“No…” Lex trolled her fruit fly mind and no straight man checked. Fudge.
“We should set the prince up with Blake since he and his husband are on the outs. Is Massimo nicer than he looks? Blake’ll want him to bottom, so if he’s a top, it won’t work.”
Lex wondered how Vive slept at night. She spoke a mile a minute. Of course, being jacked up on carbonated sugar and a diet pill or three could cause jitteriness. “Massimo is not gay. And he’s not nice.” Lex sobbed. She thought she’d used up every tear at dinner, but a second self-pitying choke constricted her throat. She let it rip.
“Sweets, what’s wrong? There, there, now. You’ll be home soon. Why are you crying?”
She explained everything from not having the fabric for the upcoming season, to closing her company, and Girasoli’s new branded line launching to compete with hers.
Vive admitted, “Taddy’s gonna shit twenty-four karat gold bricks on your cute face when she finds out.” Vive clacked a tsk, tsk, tsk sound, sending chills through Lex’s entire body. “She invested her life savings into Easton to get you and Birdie started.”
Lex untied her sneakers, feeling a desire to soak in the tub, facedown. Maybe she’d drown and wouldn’t have to tell Taddy after all. “I know. I’ll break the bad news to Taddy when I get home. I don’t know what else to do. The Easton brand is still worth something. Maybe Brill, Inc. can license off the name.”
“Do swimwear,” Vive suggested.
“Don’t care much for bikinis. I hate the sun.” She couldn’t imagine how, but remained confident Taddy would come up with a Plan B. She always did.
“You underestimate me and overrate Taddy. Jesus. You do realize what I do for a living?”
Get drunk and write stories about billionaires? “Sorry, Vive.” Their call, five minutes and counting, circulated to her favorite subject—Viveca Farnworth. It always did. Lex gave her props for holding out this long.
“Sweets, I am the founding editor for the in-the-know magazine showcasing fashio
n, beauty and all things luxurious. Now, don’t you send the Girasoli fabrics to some Shanghai chemical facility for a special treatment before they are made into Easton garments?”
She’d forgotten, “Yes, Shino Fab increases their durability. You went with me to tour their factory when we started.”
“And why, Lex love, do you treat the fabric?” She released a sarcastic fake yawn over the phone. So annoying. So Vive.
“Girasoli’s fabric breaks down in the wash after three years when worn as compression materials. Everyone’s does with our patterns.” Sooo…
“Uh-huh, don’t you see where I’m going with this?” Vive asked. She muffled the phone over her hand. Regardless, Lex overheard her yell at Mr. Kim Lee not to paint her nails in this season’s trendy metallic blue gray. Vive made a gagging sound, claiming the shade resembled a morgue toe tag.
“No, I don’t see where you’re going with this.” Lex was quick, but Vive was sonic.
“Does the prince treat his fabrics in Asia?” Without covering the phone, she screamed, “Mr. Kim Lee, I hate red, and you know I can’t wear pink. Give me bronze—I want glitter.”
While Vive shouted on, it occurred to Lex that Easton’s equity, fabric aside, may be high. An entire year spent securing a “seal of approval” from Good Housekeeping Research Institute confirmed her value. “You’re brilliant. Girasoli’s new line will flop!”
Massimo and Jemma would be lost.
“Lex love, Mr. Kim Lee says hello.” She sipped again and said, “Now, if princey poo hasn’t a Shanghai clue, keep your frigid mouth shut. Call his competitor and recreate the materials. Knock ’em off while he knocks you off. By the way, this whole fashion dynasty rivalry conversation is turning me on.” She huffed in an erotic snarl which often seemed comical. But right then, after Lex’s night, not so much.
Lex listened and slammed her legs over the bed’s pillows, ready to kick Easton’s comeback up a notch. “Girasoli’s competitor is Donatella. They were my second choice when we started. Their fabrics aren’t as good as Girasoli’s.”
“Who the fudge ball cares? Call ’em and secure a meeting ASAP.”
“Vive, I’m sorry I underestimated you. You know I love you. Please don’t tell Taddy about this. Let me see if I can turn it around, okay?”
“Mum’s the word, Lex love. Now, if you find out Massimo fancies muscular blond tops in Manhattan, let’s set ’im up with Blake.”
She sat up on the bed, hoping Vive could keep her collagen-injected mouth shut. “Good night.” Excited, frustrated and overwhelmed, Lex hung up.
Roberto’s comment about subpar being better than nothing ran through her head. She did as Vive suggested and put a call into Milan’s second largest textile designer, Donatella, and left a message requesting a meeting. A backup plan brewed. Stirring the pot, she’d up the fashion game with Massimo’s largest competitor.
And as for the prince, he’d have his new designs with Jemma. But Easton’s trade secret applied to formfitting garments, and Girasoli may be unaware. Lex couldn’t imagine Massimo’s ego conceding to garment testing. That would be her ace in the hole.
She took a bergamot steam bath. Face up with hope in the suite’s Jacuzzi, she was feeling confident he’d never get his collection off the ground. Even if Massimo did, he’d be faced with a major product recall in the very near future. I love ya, Vive Farnworth.
Hours later, Massimo entered the main house. As he retreated to his wing, he passed Roberto in the mirrored hall. “What are you doing?”
“Signorina Easton went for a run. I’m resetting the alarms.”
“So, how is she?” The prince pretended not to be as concerned as his insides were stressed. The whole time he’d been walking the beach, he couldn’t quit thinking about Lex.
Roberto’s face closed, keeping a secret.
“Cosa, what is it?” Massimo asked.
“When I found her, she wept. Signorina cried. She told sad Eddie Easton stories, Your Majesty. She shook, and I held her.”
In the two decades he’d worked with Roberto, Massimo never knew Roberto to hug or hold anyone. This American tugged at everyone’s heartstrings.
He crossed his arms. “I still cannot fathom her showing up here.”
Roberto made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Isn’t there something you could do?”
His sympathy grew. “Grazie for your concern.” He started to move on but turned back. “Roberto, in the morning, could you phone the airport to get the jet ready?”
“Sì, Your Majesty. Where shall I have them fuel up for?”
“I am going to take Signorina Easton to our Milano factory at sunrise. Good night,” he replied and continued to his sleeping quarters.
Massimo sat on his empty bed in the dark, taking in the midnight air as it came in from the open windows, trying to arrive at a solution. What if we worked together? Should he work with her? Would she work with him?
Adrenaline Junkie’s Temple of Doom
Massimo awoke at dawn, his mind still mired in the prior night’s misfortune. What a mess. But he’d come up with a master plan, a means for everything to work out.
The walk to the villa seemed peaceful enough. But when he arrived at Lex’s suite, she didn’t answer on the first or second knock. It wasn’t until the third that the door cracked open.
Lex talked on the phone. “Great. I’ll see you in a few days.” She motioned with her hand to Massimo she’d be right off. “I’m looking forward to getting started. Yes, me, too. I’ll tell Birdie you send your best.”
Bella is hot in the morning. He stood as the caller on the other line mumbled in her ear.
“Uh-huh, take care now.” She hung up the phone and asked, “Massimo, what are you doing here?” She slipped her mobile phone into her side pocket, holding on to the doorframe.
The American slept in a see-through red and white New York Giants tank top and running shorts. Whether she realized it or not, her breasts were on display for him to admire. His fingers ached to reach over and stroke her nipples, imagining them sensitive to his attention. A minute ago, she’d crawled from bed. Massimo wanted to cuddle between the sheets—with her.
“We have a busy day planned.”
“Hah! Waiting for the next ferry? I told you I won’t work out with you, and I won’t be seen at your Garden of Eden pool,” she declared.
If she kept up this attitude, he’d take her over his knee and give her a spanking. He’d throw her down on the bed, stretch her fit body over his legs, pull her running shorts off with one hand and discipline her bare skin with the other. “No time for Eden today. I am taking you to Milano this morning.”
“Milan? How will we get there? You educated me on the boats’ Tuesdays and Thursdays schedule yesterday.” She pulled out her phone and sent a text, already bored with his presence.
“Sì, true. We are taking my jet.”
“Say what?” She threw the phone on her bed, giving him her undivided attention.
“I have an airport ten minutes down the road. I want to show you our new fashion collection, to give you some peace. Girasoli is not copying you and there’s no need for a lawsuit. After the factory tour, I will drop you off at the airport where you may take a commercial flight back to the States.” Unless you accept my proposal. Then you are staying put.
She patted his shoulder while he leaned in the doorway. “Okay, Your Majesty. I’ll see your factory. But there’s no need to take me to the Milan airport afterward. I have a meeting with Donatella tomorrow. I’m going to stay in town for a few days.” She paused, waiting to see his reaction. “They called this morning to confirm a meeting. I’ll stop by their office after we’re done with your tour and review what fabrics they can provide Easton Essentials.”
Competitive anger blazed through Massimo’s muscles to an intensity he didn’t enjoy. Hearing Donatella’s name made him want to howl at the moon. “Go right ahead.”
Donatella’s fabrics were shit. They could have Easton if t
hey wanted it. Business aside, however, he wanted Lex for his own pleasure.
“Since we’ll be in Milan tonight, I can attend an industry gala on my schedule I thought I’d miss.”
“Is this evento The Fashion Ball?” He went every year, wouldn’t miss it for the world.
“Um…” Lex sighed and crossed her arms. Her accentuated cleavage drew his attention to her breasts.
I love your tits, bella.
She put off answering his question.
He wanted to know if she’d attend the ball or not.
Lex’s smile faded when he looked up at her face, noticing he was staring at her breasts.
“Well?” he insisted. Massimo wasn’t accustomed to waiting.
“Yes, I’m going to The Fashion Ball.” Despite her reserve, enthusiasm was apparent in her voice. “I’ll ask Vincent Donatella to go as my date.”
Think twice, bella. “I am confident Vinnie’s companionship for you this evening will be as stellar as his fabrics may be for Easton.”
Her eyes narrowed. She understood what he implied.
Donatella remained no match for Girasoli. Vincent was half the man he claimed to be.
“What time is your plane leaving?”
“You have thirty minutes. Meet me at the main palace gate.” He needed to go. Fearing his tongue might sharpen, Massimo gave her a smile, closed her door and marched toward the main house.
MAC Cosmetics, don’t fail me now. Having not had much sleep, Lex tried a little harder with her appearance than usual. Her mother had called after her bath. When Lex questioned her about the Girasoli checks bouncing, Birdie confessed to spending their credit line on a Caribbean psychic named Charmaine Whitedove. The clairvoyant with exclusive powers informed her after numerous payments she was unable to summon Eddie for a talk. Why? Eddie apparently wasn’t dead. No, Miss Whitedove claimed, Eddie was alive and well. “I told you, Lex. The articles in Star magazine were true.”
“What are you talking about, Mother?”
“The editorial that mentioned Eddie is living in St. Croix.”